Arusian Crusade: Esprit de Corps
by Aqua Lion
Summary: Warfare is a learning process. Know yourself, know your allies, and know your enemies. Hard enough as it is, but sometimes the lines become blurred. And sometimes, even the return of an old teammate just means learning to deal with someone new.
1. Ebb

**Arusian Crusade: Esprit de Corps**  
Prologue: Ebb

_Arusian Crusade part 5. This is where the series stops being a straight-up DotU reboot... and for those interested, I have a little story about that._

_About a year and a half ago, I wrote a little one-shot fic called Shadow Bound to get my brain back into the Voltron fandom. It was fun, it wasn't totally horrible, I started writing a sequel. But as the sequel progressed, I kept wanting to make up backstory to include, and it built up enough that I finally decided it would be just as simple to write a prequel too. A rather long prequel. Maybe more than one. Maybe four. And maybe just rewrite it totally because it was way too rushed, fold the sequel in, and keep going..._

_And now you know why AC is a thing... it started with this._

* * *

It was amazing how quickly the world could fall apart... Kylos was a sanahar, he'd trained in psychology for years. He knew closing his eyes and hoping it was all a dream never solved anything.

It didn't stop him from wanting to.

The sound had been unlike anything he'd ever heard. A whistling shriek, descending upon the earth like some nightmarish bird of prey. It was Sven who'd reacted first, leaping to his feet with a hiss of pain, warrior reflexes seeming to override the remaining damage to his body... he'd shoved both surgeon and sanahar aside as the window blew in from the sheer force of the sound.

The doctor had rushed from the room, muttering about checking on the other patients. But Kylos couldn't make himself flee. And since then he'd pretty much just been following the human quietly, trying to comprehend.

An _attack_. An attack on _Ebb_. It was absurd, incomprehensible. And it was also absolutely what was happening... the hospital was being evacuated, because that horrible whistling scream was coming closer, shattering what few windows were left and rattling the walls. But Sven was not following the proper fire drill procedures like the rest of the building, and right now, Sven seemed like the best chance of survival.

So he followed.

Rounding a corner they came face to face with two hulking, gray-skinned creatures, which immediately leveled their weapons at the pair. "Halt! This world and its inhabitants are hereby claimed by the Ninth—"

"—Oh, shut up," Sven hissed, dropping his shoulder and slamming the speaker into a wall, knocking his rifle from his hands. Kylos felt the flicker, that surge of icy rage, saw the other Drule briefly freeze up in confusion and indecision. He didn't see the next move, exactly; Sven's body was blocking it. But from the scream, the wet snap, and the sudden silence, he was pretty sure he didn't _want_ to have seen.

"That was a big mistake, vermin."

"On whose part?" As the Drule he'd hit first produced a knife, Sven snapped his wrist cleanly, wrestled the blade away, and drove it into the attacker's throat. "Kylos, we're leaving. There will be more of them."

The sanahar managed a noise that at least vaguely indicated agreement, though it really mostly came out as a squeak.

If Sven was bothered by that reaction he didn't show it, because he was busy looting the bodies, tucking the knife away and retrieving the two rifles. He handed one over and Kylos studied it curiously. He'd never seen such an implement so close, let alone handled one himself. He thought he knew what to do with it, at least—aim at the enemy, pull the trigger. Simple enough. Hopefully.

"Stay behind me and shoot any Drule that so much as looks at us funny," his patient-turned-guardian ordered.

As it happened they encountered no more Drules at all, so funny looks didn't really play into it. It seemed the building had merited very few soldiers. Which made sense; who would expect much in the way of fighting back inside of a hospital?

At the door to the outside Sven halted. "Okay, where do we go from here?"

"I was just going to follow you."

Sigh. It wasn't a patient sigh. "Where can we go that would be safe, Kylos? Ebb must have some sort of invasion plan."

Why in the world would he think that? "None that I'm aware of. Why would we prepare for such a thing? Ebb has no enemies."

The dark eyes fixed on him with a mix of contempt and utter disbelief. "You put a Drule kingdom under interdiction and you don't even have bomb shelters?" He turned away, muttering something under his breath that sounded like _Darwin was right_. Kylos wasn't sure who Darwin was or what he was right about, but felt certain it wasn't a compliment. "Fine. Storm shelters? Don't tell me you don't have storms either."

"We... er."

The human growled. "Subways? Underground storage? Anything of that sort?"

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. "Of course. All of the major cities of Ebb are linked by a series of underground supply tunnels; Sanela's nearest entrance to the complex is about ten minutes away."

"Better. Which way?"

Normally Kylos would've told him to follow. Under these circumstances he couldn't. It wasn't that he was terrified beyond all reason, but... well... yes it was. "At the main gate go left, we take that street for quite a ways."

"Got it. Let's go."

The streets were sheer chaos. Flame had erupted from several shops, choking the air with thick, reeking smoke that at least had the decency to rise quickly. Panicked Ebbians were running in every direction, the screams of the crowds drowning out even the terrible shrieking from above. He could see where that was coming from now—a few small ships were strafing overhead, taking potshots at structures. But the loudest sound came from an enormous chunk of dark steel that was hovering over Sanela's main spaceport in the distance, raining flame upon it. The facility's huge control spires, which usually dominated the city skyline, were gone.

"Come on!" Sven hissed, tugging his arm. "Faster. If you stand around to watch you're only going to end up dead."

That was plenty motivating. Truthfully the sanahar was startled by the pace his companion was keeping. Sven's body should not be tolerating this speed, let alone the abuse it had taken from his dispatching the Drule soldiers. And yet... he was a warrior.

But even warriors had their limits, and when a new set of shadows loomed before them, even Sven hesitated for an instant.

"Halt!" The voice was different, the face was different, yet the fierce, glowing eyes were the same. This one was flanked by half a dozen companions, armored and bristling with weapons, without the close quarters of the hospital to give them a fighting chance. And his words were the same. "This world and its inhabitants are hereby claimed by the Ninth Kingdom of the Drule Supremacy. Surrender or be slaughtered as the animals you are."

_Surrender or die... _not so very long ago at all, the response would have been immediate, instinctive. Perhaps it was still instinctive; it was just the absolute opposite instinct that Kylos would have expected to take over.

Surrender? No. Not like this.

He fumbled for the trigger, his body moving on a strange sort of autopilot. He went to shoot because that was what he'd been told to do, even though he had no idea how, even though it couldn't hope to save them. But the alternative was to not follow Sven's orders, to try to defy the unyielding ice... he could sense that ice flaring, ready to consume them all in one final blaze of frozen glory, because _Sven_ would never surrender to this. Which meant he surely couldn't either, couldn't show such weakness...

And suddenly it all stopped. The human clamped down on the initial surge—it couldn't have lasted more than half a second, though to Kylos it had felt like an eternity. He looked back at the sanahar, eyes deeper than endless space. "No... I won't get you killed here, Kylos."

With that he dropped his weapons and stepped forward.

Out of sheer shock, Kylos failed to actually lower his own rifle; one of the Drules moved forward and yanked it roughly from his grasp, chaining the prisoners together with brutal efficiency. He looked up at Sven, not sure what to say. Such a warrior ceding the field, to save such an unwelcome ally's life?

"...Thank you," he said quietly.

The human did not meet his eyes. "Don't thank me, Kylos. Not until you see where we're going."


	2. Transitions

**Arusian Crusade: Esprit de Corps**  
Chapter 1: Transitions

* * *

Another day, another robeast.

Lotor seemed to have run out of creative tactics, and the robeast he'd thrown at them today was not all that impressive either. The robeast itself was not Allura's concern. Her concern was that Blue Lion seemed to be fighting her a bit, the controls resisting her input, even after they'd formed into Voltron. The ugly hunk of steel and spikes actually started to _retreat_ as the lion knight bore down on it...

Voltron nearly stumbled.

"Allura, you okay?" Hunk's voice came over a private channel, though she could sense the concern and confusion from him—and the others—through the psi link as well. "One of those hits you took earlier worse than it looked?"

Whatever was wrong with her lion _had_ led her to take a few too many cannon blasts before they'd formed up. It wasn't the problem, but it was a convenient excuse. "Maybe. I'm doing my best, you're going to have to compensate."

"You got it!" The channel closed and the great machine fell into a slightly different rhythm, breaking into what could charitably be described as a loping run. It would be more _accurately_ referred to as running with a limp.

The princess narrowed her eyes, gave a low growl of frustration. "Blue Lion, what's going on? You haven't been this stubborn since the first few days I was piloting you."

The sense that entered her mind in response was one of apology, but that sensation wasn't the first thing she noticed. That was the conscious message. But underlying it was a surge of such confused anger that the princess found her own hands tightening furiously on the controls. That usually would've caused Blue to protest, but today the lion didn't seem to mind. As if it had far greater things to worry about.

That was plenty disconcerting. What more could be on Blue's mind than being in formation and fighting for their lives, really? Something that had been troubling it prior to the battle? What did the lions think about when they weren't in combat, anyway? So many questions about the great metal beasts still lingered... and it seemed like every question they answered only raised half a dozen new ones.

A jolt in her mind. This one wasn't from Blue Lion at all, though—it was over the psi link, a subconscious alert from Hunk that they were about to make a move.

"Come on, Blue," she whispered as Voltron took a flying leap at the robeast, raising the Blazing Sword overhead. There wasn't much for Allura to do in this maneuver but wait and prepare for the landing...

The sword arced down, neatly bisecting the ugly creature in a spray of blood and sparks. Which was good. Voltron's right leg gave out completely as it landed, resulting in the lion knight toppling over in the wreckage rather than striking a dramatic victory pose. Not so good.

"Vinkallar!" Allura knew the cursing was undignified, but she'd been expending all her formidable willpower on not slamming a fist against her consoles. Undignified trumped painful and undignified any day. Besides, sometimes frustration simply _had_ to be unleashed. Any good Arusian mystic knew that—suppressing emotion too powerfully in the moment would only cause it to come floating back at the least convenient time possible. At least nobody'd heard...

Lance's voice broke in. "So Allura, could you repeat that so I can get the pronunciation? What's it mean?"

...Or maybe she'd had her comms open. Sigh. "Shut up, Lance. Not now."

"Sheesh, I was just curious." Then a private channel opened. "You okay?"

"I'm _fine_." No matter what, the princess was _not_ about to admit she was suddenly back to having trouble with basic flying. Bad enough she was the weakest pilot of the team already. If this was due to something bothering Blue Lion, that was her area of expertise anyway. She could try talking to it, perhaps calm the lion's spirit, the same way Pidge and Hunk quelled mechanical difficulties.

She had this. Hopefully.

"Ooookay then. I will take your word for that, except not so much at all, and let you deal with Fearless Leader _without_ my charming company or backup. He's thrilled right now, just so you know."

About as expected, really. But not too worrisome. Keith couldn't possibly be any more annoyed than Allura was with herself. "I appreciate the concern, but I'll manage." Reaching up to cut the channel, she hesitated. It would be a shame not to yank Lance's chain a bit while she had him... she smiled sweetly. "Oh, and Lance?"

"Yeah."

"Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. Vinkallar means..." She flipped a switch on her comms, drowning the transmission in static, then sat back and grinned as Lance sputtered indignantly.

"Dude! That isn't FAIR! You did that on purpose, didn't you?!"

No real point responding; he obviously knew the answer, and it just made her grin broader. Times like these, small pleasures were important.

* * *

_The war goes on. _

Haggar reminded herself of that as she watched Zarkon berating Lotor for another failed strike, another attack that had not brought Voltron or Arus to its knees. The fact of the prince's failures was irritating, no doubt, but hardly the end of the galaxy. The Ninth Kingdom's fleet was facing the Alliance in a few dozen systems as they spoke, battling with skill and courage, winning plenty of great victories to go along with the occasional crushing defeats.

And Voltron remained largely pinned down on Arus—though there _had_ been the failed intervention at Balto, and a recent incident on Yadl—which was a victory in itself. Of course, it would be far preferable to destroy the ancient knight, but keeping it tied up was certainly better than letting it roam the Denubian unchecked.

The problem, and the reason she was currently standing by watching her king yell at his son yet _again_, was that Arus was also tying _them_ up. Far too many robeasts were being shipped straight off to meet their doom at the edge of Voltron's sword. And this was bringing up a glaring weakness, one which had never really come into play in any war she could remember...

Robeasts were a logistical nightmare.

First there was the matter of creating one. Candidates for robeast creation came from the arenas, honed to vicious perfection by gladiatorial combat. But that system had its drawbacks. In every battle, one had to fall... the candidate pool depleted itself rapidly, by design. And even once a subject had been transformed, the robeasts fought amongst each other to keep their skills sharp.

The transformation itself shouldn't be overlooked. It had taken Haggar more than a century to master the art, and while plenty of witches could empower inferior beasts, they were just that. Inferior. Not merely below her own exacting standards, but poor enough that they were prone to disobedience and disease.

Which wasn't to say it wasn't happening. There were covens empowering such creatures, depleting the supply of worthy candidates merely to serve as cannon fodder. A waste, but there were so few options. There was only one other in the Ninth Kingdom who could develop a robeast with Haggar's level of expertise—the two of them simply couldn't do it all.

And even then, the transformation only cleared the first hurdle! Empowering the robeasts, turning them into the titanic nightmares which dominated any battlefield they entered, that was a whole different story. A new, far greater expenditure of energy. It could not be done quickly, and it could not be done often...

But it would be simplicity itself to bank the robeasts, wouldn't it? Pen several giant ones up while empowering the desired number? Of course not. Not _now_. If only Voltron were their only problem, that would be an option. But with the Alliance's attacks increasing in ferocity after the destruction of Balto, the beasts were being shipped out to various battlefields as quickly as they could be empowered. There was a waiting list. Banking them was out of the question.

What it ultimately came down to was that giant robeasts weren't _meant_ as mainstream weapons. They were rare and terrible, deployed to cause as much damage as possible, to shatter enemy units and morale where a crippling blow was needed most. As a defense of last resort they could force a retreat or break an attacking fleet outright, buying the defenders time to regroup. Ultimately yes, they would fall in battle, but the destruction left in their wake more than compensated for their loss.

Voltron's ability to stand as an _equal_ to such beasts, to destroy them while barely even missing a beat, threw the whole calculation off...

"Mrew?"

Haggar blinked, startled by the soft noise at her feet; Coba had taken a seat next to her, tail swishing, watching Zarkon berating his son with confusion in his glowing golden eyes. She suppressed a low chuckle; even the cat found this spectacle absurd. And he was right. The king hardly needed her here for this...

_Let's go get some air that isn't all _hot_ air. _Nodding quietly to Coba, she swept from the throne room.

They met a crowd in the corridors of Nightstone Fortress, a slave ship returning with its bounty. One of the ships from Ebb, if Haggar's sense of timing was correct. Personally she'd felt that attack was ridiculous; Ebb was a hospital world, and what good were sick slaves? They couldn't fight, couldn't work, and shouldn't be fed to the robeasts lest they be carrying something contagious.

Such had been her advice, but no amount of pragmatism would change the king's mind. That seemed to be happening more and more often lately, she noticed. Ebb had insulted the Ninth Kingdom with its injunction, and Ebb would pay for that mistake. So now they had a grand influx of sick slaves.

Lovely.

Of course they weren't all patients. Doctors were significantly more useful—the slave population worked better when it was healthy—but they didn't need _that_ many doctors. And the Ebbians, by and large, were not suited for the manual labor that would be demanded of them on Korrinoth. It would have made more sense to simply install a puppet government on the conquered world, allow the healing structures to remain in place for the Supremacy's benefit.

She'd pointed that out, too.

A faint glimmer of recognition snapped her out of these thoughts; a trace of energy in the halls. Familiar energy, but energy that should certainly not be _here_, in the heart of Korrinoth. Haggar frowned. It was all wrong, but she couldn't grasp its context, not without further investigation... "Do you feel that, little one?"

"Myak-ak-ak," Coba growled, arching his back with his fur on end. Then he shot down the corridor.

That was presumably a yes.

Haggar followed at a swift pace. Not running, since that might cause others in the corridors to stop her with unwanted questions, but moving swiftly enough to keep track of her familiar as he wove his way between the ragged columns of prisoners and crisp formations of the guards. Coba was drawing some startled exclamations himself, but most politely ignored the cat's mad dash. After all, in Drule society it was simply assumed that an an animal acting strangely was a witch's familiar. Impeding its progress was thus liable to turn out badly.

"Myaaao!"

Her cat pulled to a sharp halt, pawing at a heavy door that led to one of the holding cells. This was where prisoners who couldn't work were left to wait—either to be thrown to the robeasts at feeding time, or simply to succumb to dehydration. It was hard to say which fate might be more merciful.

But one of these broken slaves would find himself on a far different path... because as she approached the door, all became clear. Yes. She knew this energy completely now, remembered it. Coba did too; he hissed and scratched at the hinges as his mistress approached and peered through the tiny, barred window.

The slaves within took no notice of her. Several were asleep, while others were clearly so sick or wounded they couldn't have moved to look at the door if they wished to. A few simply seemed to have already given up hope. But soon enough, one of the more alert prisoners seemed to feel the witch's gaze upon him.

Two dark eyes raised to meet hers, black and cold as the vastness of space.

It was _him_.

Haggar couldn't help it. She didn't care that it was undignified, she didn't care that all manner of alien vermin within the cell startled and stared at her as if she were some mad beast on display. She laughed. Laughed with genuine amusement, as the events that must have led to this moment became clear, played out before her eyes.

_Ah, Sarga works in such mysterious ways_...

It would be so easy to let ego take over. To smite him right then and there, punish him for the sin of actually _surviving_ a blow she'd meant to be mortal. But no. Her own carelessness had left him alive, and now that would all prove to be for the best.

Certainly she could find _something_ useful to do with this lost pilot of the Blue Lion.

* * *

So now they were knights.

It still didn't feel real... two weeks later, Keith found himself still opening the drawer he kept the medallion in and just staring at it. Taking in the shimmering silver ribbon, the ornate engraving on the medal itself—the Arusian crest, surrounded by stars with lightning arcing between them. He ran his fingers along the smooth, dark metal. Taking it in.

A _knight_.

Was this what his life had been leading to? Surely it was. Surely it _had_ to be. He sometimes questioned the idea of destiny when Allura spoke of it, but how could he question what was staring him right in the face? Always, ever since the moment his parents died if not long before, he'd known he was meant to be a soldier. To be a knight was something... more than that and yet not. An ascended soldier, a warrior of the greatest honor.

It was such a responsibility. And yet the weight of it was somehow comforting.

Closing the drawer again he headed to the courtyard, cool and damp in the early morning darkness. Rising before dawn didn't make his workouts the most comfortable experience, perhaps, but he found the solitude made up for the chill and the slippery grass. Going through some stretches and katas, he wondered again if he would ever get used to this.

But he'd gotten used to some other things, hadn't he?

_Good morning, Black Lion._

The familiar electric sparks danced into his mind, his lion's acknowledgment, returning the greeting. He'd taken to opening himself to the great machine more often; Black seemed to enjoy being 'present' for the ritual of the katas. For his own part, Keith rather liked the dichotomy, the sense of solitude without truly being alone.

Though he realized abruptly he really _wasn't_ alone.

"Allura?"

She was standing at the entrance to the courtyard, watching him, and looked a little sheepish when he called her name. "I'm sorry, I just came to throw a few punches at Strawman... I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not an interruption at all." He motioned to the target dummy, which he really _wasn't_ using at the moment. Dealing with Strawman's face was something best done after coffee. "Beat that smirking monstrosity up to your heart's content. Please."

With a soft laugh, Allura proceeded to do just that, and Keith attempted to go back to his own katas. Attempted. He desperately wanted to ask what she was doing up so early, and that was probably none of his business. She was the princess, he was her knight, knights just didn't _do_ things like that. Except she was also a warrior and pilot under his command, and if something was keeping her up it was best to know about it. Especially given her performance in combat two days ago—hell, he'd chewed her out and put her on extra training runs after that, yet he didn't feel comfortable asking what was keeping her up?

This was complicated.

Then she threw a wild punch that didn't get anywhere near its target to end her sequence, and things got easier. "Hey, hold up. You'll throw your own arm out like that, you know better! Here. Like this." Demonstrating the proper course of the sequence nearly took the dummy's head off.

Which wouldn't have been a bad thing.

Allura nodded, mimicking his motions and doing some pretty reasonable damage herself, then sighed and backed away. "Sorry. I thought this would work off some energy, but I guess I'm just not very focused right now."

It would be a shame not to take that opening. "What's on your mind? Your recent piloting aside, dropping by here to punch scarecrows before dawn isn't really your usual style."

"No, it isn't." She sighed and dropped onto a bench. "I just couldn't sleep, but I'm not really sure how to... I mean, you'll think it's silly."

Keith crossed his arms. "If that's your way of saying you don't want to talk about it, just say so. But it's my job to be concerned about things keeping my teammates up at night, no matter how 'silly' they may or may not be."

"Fair point." Frown. "It's just... it's not me, exactly. Blue Lion has been agitated for a couple of days, and it's got _me_ on edge." She shook her head, looking intensely frustrated. "I... thought I would be able to get it to tell me what's wrong, but I haven't had any luck yet. Just fragments. You know how it is."

Oh, did he ever. Trying to get a straight answer from the lions could be a little like trying to nail jello to a wall, as the saying went... though Keith wasn't entirely clear on what jello was. Some ancient gelatin mix that was not good for wall-nailing. But something about that didn't quite mesh, and it was something he'd actually been wondering for awhile now, somewhere on the fringes of his mind.

What had Allura told him, when she'd started piloting? She'd spoken to Blue Lion, it didn't like her, but it expected her to try to fly. Those were fairly complex answers, answers that he was sure would strain Black Lion even now. "I thought you could speak to your lion better than we can speak to ours?"

He was pretty sure she fought down a brief flash of annoyance before raising an eyebrow. "You would think that, wouldn't you? That would make sense. I was hoping that would help me figure out what's going on, so I could fix it rather than just sounding like I'm making excuses for..." She paused.

Understanding dawned. "Blue's mood is why you've been having trouble flying."

"...Yes."

That answered a lot of things. And annoyed him. "Why didn't you just _say_ so, Allura? If we'd known what was going on we could've—"

"Could've what? Hunk was doing the best he could to compensate for it anyway when we were in formation, and I was doing all I could otherwise." She scowled. "I know I'm the weakest link, Keith, but I should at least be able to handle my lion being _grumpy_."

_She's right. Blue Lion isn't the only one who's on edge_. "Princess, calm down." He took a step back, and with it felt his own mindset slipping from commander to knight. No. From commander to teammate... perhaps even friend. "Who says you're the weakest link? We don't have weakest links." He crossed his arms. "That wasn't what I was saying at all. I just thought maybe, you know, we've all sort of been sorting out lion communication in our own ways. Maybe we can help."

Allura blinked. "Oh. Sorry." Sigh. "But I don't know if you could. I'm not sure if I could even put into words some of the things I've tried, would any of you be any better at it? The communication is so... _ephemeral_."

"That's true, but can it hurt to try?" Keith cocked his head. "Before you started flying, you said you talked to Blue Lion about it—made it sound like you were getting plenty of answers then. What changed?"

The princess hesitated a moment. "That was... completely different. I used my spirit talking abilities." She looked thoughtful, gazing up at the sky; the first soft rays of sunlight were starting to peel over the castle walls. "And Blue Lion and I had a perfectly normal conversation. Surreal, really, to think about it now... being bound to it is so much deeper, more powerful. But there's something to be said for the spirit talking and getting to hear actual _sentences_, too."

"You couldn't do that again?"

"I was told not to, in no uncertain terms." She shrugged helplessly. "Blue doesn't like it. Hates it, really. I've tried asking why but of course, trying to get an answer just runs into the same problems... I don't know what else to do."

"Hard to blame you for being frustrated," Keith agreed, remembering past 'conversations' with his own craft. "Though Black Lion has been a bit more... coherent with me lately, even putting a few actual words in sometimes. It seems like it's such an effort, but... almost like communication is getting easier, too. For both of us."

"Yes." The princess gave him an odd look, as if she was trying to decide how much to say. "Keith... there's something you should know, something all of you should probably know. It just never seemed like the right time to bring it up."

Well that was interesting. "Go ahead."

"Father says the original Voltron was... just a machine." There was a flicker in her eyes at those words, a reluctance. As if she didn't want to accept that fact. "Whatever happened when the five of you first formed Voltron as it is now, you created something new. The machine is ancient, but the lions are young. They're..." She shook her head. "It seems so strange to think of them this way but they're _children_, Keith. They're still learning about how our bonds with them work, the same as we are."

..._Huh._ She was right, that was strange. Yet her putting it that way also made so much sense. Of course the lions were young; that surge when they had first formed Voltron had been the flare of creation, new life sparking in the machines. The lions had acted so differently after that. He'd never have put it into words, but somehow, he'd already _known_ what Allura was trying to tell him. They all had.

Which meant Allura wasn't just flying a powerful fighter. She was trying to work with a young lion spirit in the midst of what might be a temper tantrum. No _wonder_ she was having issues.

_Black Lion? Do you, uh, know anything about this?_

A flicker, an affirmative. The sense of crashing waves and a prickling sensation down the back of his neck—a chill. All he could really interpret from them was that Blue Lion was angry, and they already knew that.

He sent along a bit of gratitude anyway; no sense angering _his_ lion. Then he looked at Allura. "I think the first thing you need to do is calm yourself down. If Blue's anger feeds back to you, yours might feed right back to it. Let's calm you down and break that cycle—I think you're ready to start on some more advanced katas. Sound good?"

"Certainly a better idea than flailing blindly." She took up a position, went through motions that were much too urgent and ragged at first. Slowly, though, she seemed to loosen up, breathing more evenly, letting the soothing ritual of the katas siphon her agitation away. Learning new methods.

They were _all_ still learning. The lions, the princess, and the knights...

So much yet to learn.

* * *

They'd filed in quietly, a few saluting him before they found their seats. Everyone was on time, which was unfortunate. It was always so much more _fun_ to have one careless sap to make an example of, to set the tone... _ah well. Better luck next time_.

Wade looked over the cadets he'd summoned. First years, every one of them. Fresh meat. He kept the derisive scowl from his face, settling on a stern expression as he locked his gaze on each of young pilots in turn. They all looked back at them with the curious anticipation of newbies who didn't have a clue, and he decided he'd better start talking before a sneer could form.

"Let me make this clear. Each of you has earned this place through _potential_, not performance. I intend to forge the lot of you into a single, mighty weapon, and I'm starting early. You will be removed from the standard Academy structure to work together, learn together, train together. The Dairugger Squadron will be your _life_."

There were twenty-five of them; a full Alliance fighter squadron. Most were human. A handful were Hydrans or Salans, the other two races whose scientists were playing an integral part in Project Dairugger's development. And then there was the Baltan. The damned crossbreed Baltan, who'd been scorned even on his own miserable planet. The one Wade's superiors had told him would _damned_ well be included on the team, a living reminder of why the 'vehicle Voltron' had been ordered in the first place.

Stupid, symbolic nonsense. At least the kid knew his way around a cockpit, not that that would matter for long.

"You'll notice there are quite a few of you. Initial plans call for fifteen vehicles in the squadron, which means not all of you are going to have a seat. Some of you will be flying backup." He crossed his arms. The higher-ups had insisted on that too, intent on not repeating the mistakes of the other Voltron. It had been a bit of a scandal around High Command when they'd learned the sole remaining member of the Arusian royal family had been forced into flying combat.

Ridiculous. Wade was determined not to have _his_ operation look like amateur hour.

"I expect each of you to push your fellow pilots to the brink, to the peak of their capabilities. You are now on the path to becoming the elite of the elite. Dismissed!" At those last words, he could no longer stop the sneer, but at least managed to twist it into something resembling a smile.

_Elite of the elite? More like sacrificial lambs_.

Calling them in early was key. He would have full personal command over their training, keeping them isolated, choosing what they were to focus on—and what lessons could be skipped entirely. And when it was time to make his move, who could stop him?


	3. Trust and Rage

**Arusian Crusade: Esprit de Corps**  
Chapter 2: Trust and Rage

_It's been forever, I know... but at least long chapter is long?_

* * *

_If war is hell, what does that make the reports? Is there worse than hell? Maybe I should borrow Pidge's copy of Inferno._

Another pre-dawn workout had given way to sitting in the control room at sunrise, not watching the monitors, just reading what had come in overnight. Keith was desperately trying to keep up with the action reports flooding in as the Alliance redoubled its efforts in the Denubian. The Drules were giving as good as they got, of course. This _was_ the Ninth Kingdom's home turf. The Alliance was now engaged in precisely the sort of open war it hadn't wanted, but at least the Ninth was standing alone—though they fought with greater ferocity for that fact.

Voltron intervened when it could, of course, but opportunities were few and far between. It really wouldn't do to leave Arus wide open. And so often the reports were nothing they could help with. He'd given up on reading anything about neutral planets entirely; much as it pained him, they inevitably told of another independent world being steamrolled by the Ninth's forces, sacked for all the resources and slaves the invaders could carry, then simply left to rot. There was nothing Voltron could do.

Using Voltron as an offensive weapon, even to liberate, was out of the question anyway. Far too risky to leave Arus for so long.

All that was a problem. Then there was so much more to his worry...

"Commander?"

He looked up, privately welcoming the distraction. "Morning, Coran. What are you doing up this early?"

"Wondering the same about you, to be honest." The old advisor set a steaming mug of coffee on the console in front of him, earning a grateful smile. "Do you ever sleep? Running yourself ragged won't help your team." His eyes settled on the currently active report. "A logistics order for the Seventh Recon? What can you possibly be gaining from this?"

"I know, I know." Keith shook his head. "But it's impossible to predict what may or may not be important, you know? The Drules have thrown too many monkey wrenches at us as it is."

"Of course. A good leader should always keep informed of the situation around him." Frown. "But at the same time, a good leader recognizes that he can't do everything alone. The Alliance has a whole task force committed to precisely this type of analysis, Keith. They've been sending us everything relevant for this sector."

True enough, but... "I feel better looking on my own."

"You don't trust them?"

_Oh. Well._ There it was, so quickly. Coran's words cut to the true heart of what was bothering him, the dilemma he didn't dare voice. Saying it would be the final straw. So he just gave the old man a sullen look for a moment, then returned his attention to the reports.

_How _can_ I trust them now? How can _anyone_ trust them now?_

The non-answer was more than enough of an answer for Coran, in any case. "This is why the Alliance exists, Commander. Precisely to coordinate such things. They're far from perfect, but they're hardly incompetent. The alternatives are worse."

_Of course he won't just go away_. Keith sighed. _Fine_. "Like you say, they're not perfect. If _they_ fail, _we're_ the ones who have to live with it, even if we couldn't have done anything because _their_ information was wrong. So if I look at everything myself, at least I have a full picture. At least then if something goes wrong, I'm justified in blaming myself."

"Keith..." After a moment's hesitation, Coran sat in the chair next to him. "You _can't_ do it all yourself. No matter how much you want to."

"I know." Sven had always told him that, hadn't he? And Lance sometimes still had to make the same point. He'd been trying so hard to actually _believe_ it, only to have the notion shattered. "...It was simpler when I could trust that the Alliance would at least be trying to be right. That their orders would be just. But how can I do that anymore?"

Another hesitation. "Why wouldn't you?" He asked it as if he knew the answer.

Keith answered anyway. "Because of Balto! Everything I read, I look at the name the orders were sent out under and can't stop myself from wondering... is this the traitor? Is this the one who sold out Balto, still sitting comfortably on Earth with no one the wiser? Will this redeployment order mean the end of another world?" He looked up and met the other man's gaze, eyes filled with frustration. "Maybe there's nothing I can do, even so. Of course there isn't. But I like the illusion."

Coran watched him for a few moments, then sighed. "I know how you feel. When we were attacked here, there were so many who lost faith in the Alliance, which said they would protect us... and some even in King Alfor, who said he had a plan to keep us safe. But you can't give up your trust in everything, Keith." He gave the commander's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "There are always other forces at work, and far more good that should not be outweighed by even the worst treachery. You understand?"

"I understand." Keith's icy gaze settled back on the monitors. Coran was right, of course, and he knew it, but it wasn't so easy as just knowing it. And yet... he felt a reassuring glimmer of lightning in his mind, gave a faint smile. "I haven't lost my faith in _everything_."

The old man arched an eyebrow, then nodded. "That's for the best. If you don't want to leave it to the Alliance, why don't you at least let me help you sort through some of this? I've gotten to be rather good at paperwork of late."

Keith blinked, then actually chuckled. Right. Allura had mentioned that Coran was handling most of the bureaucracy to free her up for flying... _sure, why not?_ At the very least, he had to trust the people around him here. Maybe faith in the faraway Alliance would return in time.

"That would be great."

Coran nodded and called up a second screen, calling up some of what Keith had been looking over. But that was all. Putting two people on the workload would help; taking on more work would just put them right back where they started.

The reports from the neutral worlds remained unread.

* * *

Sven woke slowly. Confused. The first thing he recognized was the same thing he always recognized. A gaping hole somewhere in his guts, made all the more painful by the fact that it wasn't physical. It was Blue Lion. More to the point, it was the absence of Blue Lion... it gnawed at him there, every waking moment. His reminder of his failure. His bound soul screaming for its faraway partner. The pain was slightly lessened now, though; he couldn't imagine why.

It should be worse, shouldn't it? The shadow of Doom should make it worse.

Yes... he knew where he was. Except it didn't make sense, everything around him right now was _wrong_. He forced himself to push away the ache, needing to focus. To get a better sense of his surroundings.

As usual, his body was also throbbing with more mundane aches everywhere. That was barely worth noticing. He was parched and starving; new, but only logical given where he was. Yet he was lying on something soft and flat, and the air was comfortably warm, and that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. This wasn't how the progression was supposed to go. There had been the attack on Ebb, being herded onto the cold, filthy slave ship like cattle. Then the arrival on Doom, where he and a hundred other wounded captives had been thrown into an even colder, filthier cell which barely allowed space to breathe, let alone move.

Entirely different from his first trip to Doom. Then, the team had been 'honored' prisoners, gladiators who were candidates for robeast transformation. Not this time. Now he was nothing but useless garbage, left to die.

So what was going on now?

_Was_ he dead?

Truthfully that didn't sound like such a bad option anymore. But... no. He wasn't ready to give in, wasn't ready to give up. This couldn't be death. It either still hurt too much, or didn't hurt enough. And even if it was, he sure as hell wasn't going to sit and accept it this fate without raging at whoever had inflicted it on him.

Bracing himself for whatever he might see, Sven opened his eyes.

He hadn't braced enough.

"Ah, finally awake I see." The voice sent a frigid jolt down his spine. A voice he'd only ever heard once in his life, but it was impossible to forget, etched into his memory as surely as its handiwork was carved into his battered body.

"You..."

The hooded form peering at him actually smiled, the twitch of her lips just visible beneath the shroud. "I suppose we have not been properly introduced, have we? Manners were not my priority when we last met. Forgive me." She inclined her head slightly. "I am Haggar, Daughter of the Wyvern."

"I know who you _are_," he hissed, trying to sit up and finding himself chained down. Of course he was chained. _Damn it_. Yet her demeanor made no sense. The bindings, but speaking of manners? Introductions? He was here for her to finish the job she'd started, he had no doubt...

He wasn't going to scream. Oh no, not this time. He wouldn't give her that.

But she just watched him, gave an exasperated sigh. "You are going to aggravate your injuries, you realize. Why don't you sit still and tell me your name?"

"Injuries you gave me!" he snarled. "What's it to you?"

Another sigh. "I did not request custody over you to compound old mistakes. Come now. You require food and drink; the sooner you can act like a civilized being, the sooner these can be arranged." Her eyes glowed. "I only wish to talk."

Sven clamped down on his immediate response. No way in hell would he touch anything she gave him to eat or drink, but saying that wasn't going to accomplish anything. He had to stop reeling. Get a handle on himself, try to make sense of the situation. He wasn't going to break these bonds—and even if he could, there was the small matter of the witch who'd originally injured him standing _right there_—so maybe playing along was the best option.

For the moment.

He let his body relax a bit, though the glare remained. "Fine. My name is Sven."

She nodded, glowing eyes showing no emotion. Or could he just not interpret it? "It is a sincere honor. You taught me some truly interesting things about your people when last we met..." Frown. "A single realization changes the very nature of the war. I'm sure you have heard the results of that from your friends, of course."

Sven hesitated. Actually he didn't have the slightest clue what she was talking about. He hadn't followed the war from his sickbed, all it could do was make him angrier about his own injuries. When he'd been awakened on Ebb, they _had_ told him he could make contact with those who sent him any time, but of course he hadn't done it. The thought of facing the team he'd failed stayed his hand.

They'd never tried to contact him, either. Probably still thought he was in a coma.

None of that mattered; he wasn't about to admit it to the witch, and he needed to stay focused. "Yes, of course."

"You're a poor liar, young one."

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that, but he hadn't thought he was that bad. Usually it was at least people who knew him who had him pegged. "...I haven't wanted to hear about the war," he finally muttered, grudgingly. "What would be the point? Nothing I could do about any of it. Because of _you_."

Every word of _that_ had been truthful.

Still Haggar showed no discernible emotion, simply nodding again. "Of course. They would honor your wishes not to hear of such things, would they? But that is of no consequence, not at all relevant. I know you could not have been in contact with them. It shines in your eyes, drips from your voice. Do you think you can mask the pain of abandonment? The void sees all."

Sven's breath caught in his throat. What exactly was he supposed to say to that? But no, they hadn't abandoned him—no more than he'd abandoned them, anyway. He'd been the one to fail. "They... have better things to do than talk to an invalid. I didn't want to bother them."

"Bother? Perhaps my conclusions about your race were incorrect. Perhaps you were merely special." Haggar cocked her head. "You all but gave your life for one of your companions, and were bonded to the lion knight and his warriors by destiny. Do they not owe you something in return?" She touched the chains holding him to the bed, and they melted away in a flicker of gold and violet. "Something more than sending you out of sight without a word?"

Sven sat up tentatively, hesitated. _Don't listen_. She'd done something more than simply banish the chains. He could _feel_ it, the tendrils of energy sinking into him, and yet somehow he couldn't make himself care. So what if the witch's magic surrounded him? At least it was something, more than the nothing he'd been living with on Ebb.

She was right, wasn't she? They'd just sent him away and forgotten...

_No_. He hadn't contacted them either! He could've, he should've. How were they to know he was awake? Did he expect them to hover over the Ebbians, checking in every day just on that off chance?

Maybe they could've at least asked to be informed...

"You struggle with the truth," Haggar said quietly. "You are not to be blamed for this. You sold yourself with honor, and those who benefited from your sacrifice showed no appreciation. They have proven unworthy of your loyalty. Do you know that you have been replaced, young one? That the Blue Lion now flies under the control of the princess of Arus?"

Sven froze.

_...Replaced? By Allura?_

It made sense. It made so much sense. Of course someone would have to have taken his seat; after all, the Voltron Force could hardly fight without his lion. Voltron _needed_ a right leg. And of course it would be Allura, who'd wanted so much to help defend her planet, who'd wanted to be treated as an equal to the team.

Completely practical. To be expected.

So why did his guts flip so fiercely? Why did that gaping emptiness inside him seem to suddenly yawn twice as wide?

"Of course I've been replaced," he finally managed to growl. "I never expected them to just roll over and die without me!"

"But you might have expected them to remember you. To save you."

Odd thing for her to say, actually. Weren't they stuck on Arus? They didn't have their damned _navigator_, after all. He blinked, trying to gather himself. A faint haze was starting to cloak his thoughts, was he missing something? "That's nonsense."

"Is it?" She reached into a pocket of her robes, retrieving a crystal that shimmered with tiny glowing runes from within. Sven recognized it, though he'd never seen one in person; the Drules used such crystals for portable data storage. "So very much you've missed, while you slept forgotten. Voltron has declared itself to defend far more than Arus, little one. Observe." The crystal came to life, projecting images.

Images of Voltron.

Sven felt a pang, had to fight to keep it down. Actually _seeing_ the great machine again ached, yet he couldn't help a small smile as he watched. The metal knight dominated the images, striking down its opponents without question or mercy. As it should be. His failure hadn't crippled the team. That was _good_, no matter how it stung, wasn't it?

But the more he watched, the more he realized that the surroundings were all wrong. Voltron was fighting robeasts, yes—but one was in the midst of a burning city of blue-gray granite, the other a desert settlement filled with strange, alien architecture. Neither looked remotely like Arus.

_No. That isn't possible._

The images could be lies. Had to be lies. The witch's magic was more than capable of creating illusions, it would be so simple. This was a trick. It couldn't be true.

No, somehow... he knew she wasn't lying. He remembered. That day when Blue Lion's absence had ceased to ache quite so deeply within him. It made sense now. They'd been somewhere _nearby_. Somewhere that wasn't Arus, yet somewhere worthy of their protection... apparently unlike Ebb. Unlike him.

But something still didn't make sense.

"Suppose... suppose I believe this. What's it to you? What do you hope to accomplish? Seems like you'd be better off trying to turn someone who actually _is_ a member of the Voltron Force. Not a crippled throwaway."

"No? But you are here. Abandoned and alone. They have each other, don't they? What do you have? Memories and bitterness." Haggar's eyes flared. "You require more. You are worthy of more. I can help you show them... that they have made a grave mistake."

So that was the game. Vengeance. It did sound attractive—_no, stop that! Don't let her get to you! _He shook his head rapidly, trying to shake off the cobwebs, the fog that was making his thoughts sluggish. Pain? Magic? He wasn't sure. _Keep talking, buy time_. "And how would you do that?"

"I thought of turning you into a robeast." Golden eyes flickered even brighter beneath the cowl. "But that would be a terrible waste of your talents. Not all are so unfaithful as the defenders of Arus; come and see."

Part of Sven resisted the urge to move, to obey. She was using him, she was twisting everything, he couldn't succumb to her words. Couldn't succumb to... _to what, the truth? She's only making you see what you don't want to see._

Maybe he had to accept this.

_No!_

...Maybe movement would clear his head, in any case. He stood, grimacing as a sharp pain shot up his spine; walking was still a bit iffy, and he was quite sure his actions during the invasion of Ebb had made it worse.

Haggar noticed. "Do you wish me to block the pain for you? It would be a simple spell."

"No!" he snarled. He didn't want the damned witch's magic touching him, though in the back of his mind he knew it already was. But he didn't trust _her_ no matter how right she might be about the others; it was her fault all of this had happened! He couldn't trust anyone but himself right now. That much was clear. This was all just stalling, waiting for when he could make his move.

What move?

_Still working on that._

For now, he followed.

It was the first time he'd had a moment to try to take in his surroundings, though there wasn't all that much to see. The corridor she was leading him through seemed to be carved in rock, and there was a definite downward slope to it, but there were no notable features to the walls—at least, none that he could tell in the dimness. The witch's staff cast a faint golden glow around their immediate area, but that was the only light.

Certainly no sign of any other halls branching off. No way out. Not yet.

Would he even be able to see it through the haze wrapped around him?

They walked in silence; Haggar seemed content to let him stew on his predicament. Not that he would've expected small talk. But it was surreal, walking beside such a feared, ancient creature—one who'd crippled and nearly killed him, no less—and simply being surrounded by such silence.

He was relieved when the corridor opened into a vast chamber, revealing...

_What?!_

Sven really had no idea what he'd been expecting, but a lion was _absolutely not it._ Yet there it was, a bulky construct of dull gray metal, crouched in the midst of several jagged circles drawn on the floor. Sightless eyes peered down at them, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. It made no sense. The Drules hated lions.

What _was_ this?

Haggar followed his gaze. "A poor imitation, is it not? Pure metalsmithing is not one of my greatest talents; my art requires far more than mere steel."

"It's an abomination," he muttered darkly, not worrying about tact. She _had_ asked.

"Indeed..." The witch looked from him to the lion, then back. "It is an unworthy shell, waiting to be granted life and power. But let me show you something of interest, human." With a light flick of her wrist, a razor-sharp pulse of magic arced over his palm, causing a thin stream of blood to surge forth.

Intellectually, Sven realized he should have turned around and punched her right there, and damn the consequences. Any other place, any other moment, he would've done just that. But here he didn't. He _couldn't_. The fog was too thick, the curiosity was too strong.

_No! Stop it!_ He wasn't himself, he needed to fight this, needed to...

"Look."

What else could he do? He looked.

The blood was moving.

"What...?"

"This is the mark of destiny, young one. Your so-called friends may have abandoned you, but Voltron has not relinquished its claim upon your soul." The trickle of blood crept along the floor of the laboratory, and he watched, fascinated. It was impossible. He couldn't be losing so much blood. Yet the thin stream of crimson kept flowing, filling in the ritual circles, then crawling its way up to the inert lion, staining its claws. Seeming to be absorbed into the metal. "You do not need them. The power of the lion god remains _your_ right."

_My right..._

A cry tore free of Sven's throat, unbidden. Something new was happening. The steel was reacting to the blood, darkening. But it wasn't turning red. It was turning blue, a blue so dark it seemed glossy black except for where the light hit it just right. But it wasn't just what the blood was doing to the lion. It was what the lion was doing to _him_. He could feel it feeding back, surging into him, binding itself to the one whose blood was fueling it.

The lion was changing shape as well, its lines becoming sleeker. Spikes appeared on its legs, thin metal wings spread out from its shoulders. And finally its eyes flared to life, their crimson glow filling the laboratory.

Sven cried out again, the flare of energy resonating in his chest. Filling the gaping void there with presence, with fury. The shock took him to his knees, and he stared up at the lion, drinking in the sight of it. Its _beauty_.

Blue Lion had returned to him... no. _No_. It wasn't the real Blue Lion. He knew that, yet this dark likeness sank its claws into the emptiness his true lion had left behind. The pain was not erased, but its power was gone. Locked away behind a wall of rage and new purpose.

They had abandoned him. He would show them their error.

"On your feet, young one." Haggar's voice still sent chills down his spine, but what of it? The words behind him paled in comparison to the vengeance that stood before him. "You have been given a second chance. Will you take it? Will you punish those who cast you aside?"

Sven stood. His legs were still a bit shaky, his body still sore. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but this.

"Yes."

* * *

Allura was dreaming.

She was inside Blue Lion's den, but the perspective was all wrong. The sensations were all wrong. She was seeing the den from above, as though she were in Blue's cockpit, yet her feet were on the ground and she could feel the open air around her. The damp chill was a soft embrace on her skin, and every faint ripple in the water was as sharp and clear as a crashing wave, licking at her claws...

...Claws?

Her vision wouldn't move where she wanted it to, yet she suddenly knew if she could look down she would see gleaming metal claws resting in the sand. She wasn't in the lion's cockpit—she _was_ the lion.

After a minute there was a new sound, the hydraulic hiss and metallic _thunk_ of the shuttle pulling into the den. The lion's focus turned, tracking a small, slim form in a faded pink flight suit approaching with cautious purpose.

A memory...?

The question was answered by a faint glimmer of presence. Blue Lion, with her, showing her this dream for some reason. This memory. Though it seemed to be filtering out parts of it; rather than showing her entering the cockpit and being rejected, it moved straight to the ritual. Candles arranged on the sands, whispered words that Allura knew, yet they sounded utterly alien to the lion's auditory sensors.

The feelings of the memory seeped in. Intense suspicion, as the lion peered down at its visitor, this strange, unwelcome being who was not its chosen human. A bit of curiosity at the ritual taking place before it. Mostly simple annoyance at being woken up.

And then, abruptly, pain.

A strangled gasp started and cut off, even that sound beyond her in the memory, though the lion gave a harsh, short roar of surprise as piercing talons ripped through... what? It wasn't the metal body but Blue Lion's own _essence_, being seized and torn roughly from one plane to another. Then the grip faded, but the pain didn't stop—it only dulled a bit, going from sharp scythes to a low, constant ache that seemed to exist everywhere at once. Then despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, Blue Lion lowered its head to speak to one who'd torn its soul from its proper place.

_By all the spirits..._

Realization set in hard and swift. Blue Lion was giving her an answer, the only way it seemed to know how.

The spirit talking rituals were meant to call to the dead. To ghosts, from their silent plane of eternal sleep. Her craft was not meant to call to living spirits; doing so could only cause terrible strain on the soul being called to. It had worked, yes, but there was no longer any doubt in her mind as to why she must never do it again. She was lucky the lion had shown her as much patience as it had.

_Blue Lion? I... I'm sorry, I didn't know, I didn't think..._

Immediately a warm acceptance flooded through her, banishing the pain and the vision. It was an answer. Simply that.

Now she knew, but this was a new form of communication as well, wasn't it? Or perhaps simply the logical extension of the communication they already knew. Either way... _can you tell me what has you so upset here?_

There was a brief pause, followed by a tentative negative that she was pretty sure should be interpreted as an _I don't think so_. Then a new sensation. The dream became washed out in darkness, icy cold and... wet? An ocean? But a deeply disturbed ocean, the vortex pulling her under, a sense of crashing waves on the surface. Yet within the shadowy depths it was so _calm_. She was calm, too; there was no fear here. These sensations were not dangerous, they were a simple observation of the deadly forces around her.

Though she could tell Blue was agitated by this dark sea, Allura couldn't fathom why. It seemed the lion was right, it couldn't explain it to her. Not even here. _Thank you for trying, Blue. If you think of—_

The sea parted from above, searing light pouring in. Allura heard Blue's roar of shocked fury, had a split second to recognize that this was something new, before the flame reached her. Then there was nothing but fire.

There was a roar. A soundless voice she'd heard before, one that had spoken to her in the den, one that had settled into her soul. _Heart of tenacity! Flee!_

Flee? How was she supposed to—before she could even finish wondering, a concussive force threw her out of the fire. Out of the ocean.

Out of the dream.

Allura woke with a scream, blood racing, convinced she could still smell her own scorched skin. No. Not even sparing a moment to be certain she wasn't burning, she reached out. "Blue Lion? Blue, talk to me!"

Immediately the presence surged in her mind. Despite herself, despite the fact that she could still feel her lion's rage, the princess briefly allowed that presence to be comforting. But then she realized there was more than anger flowing through Blue's spirit. There was a sensation that could only be described as sheer terror.

_My god..._

What could possibly frighten one of the lions? What had just happened?

"Blue? Are you... are you alright?"

This time the answer was clear. And it was a resounding _no_.

* * *

Lance couldn't quite say why he was awake. Something had just... happened. A surge of unease that wasn't a dream, ripping him from sleep and sending his heart racing. Getting back to sleep was out of the question, so he pulled on some workout clothes and headed down to take it out on Strawman.

Which was interesting, since Strawman was already occupied.

Rather than interrupting, he stood and watched Pidge for a bit. The kid was always an interesting fight, that much was for sure. No form and little reason to his moves; he battled on pure reflex. Or at least he _had_. Watching now, Lance was identifying a bit of something... else. Something familiar. Something he knew well, something that had to be there because how could it not? And yet seeing it in person was disconcerting...

There was a terrible, wild rage flaring in Pidge's eyes as he landed blows on the dummy. And while Strawman was designed to spark a certain level of hatred in those utilizing it, that was nothing like this. No, Lance _knew_ this rage.

Vengeance.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a conversation he'd had with Allura not all that long ago. A talk about vengeance and hatred. He should probably give the same one to Pidge, all things considered. He was the poster child for the damage that path could do, wasn't he? On the other hand he wasn't quite sure he wanted his main use to the team to be as an object lesson.

On the third hand, which could only mean something had gone freakishly wrong with the laws of anatomy, he wasn't at all sure how he would go about talking to Pidge about this in the first place. Hunk had explained his theory to them, and Dr. Gorma found it plausible—examining Pidge himself to confirm it was out of the question, apparently. Dissociative amnesia. Which was apparently the clinical term for denial.

So how _did_ you talk someone down from something he wouldn't let himself remember?

_Maybe you start with just talking_. "Geez, squirt. _You_ drew that smirk on him, I'd think you'd hate it less than the rest of us."

Pidge pulled to an abrupt halt in mid-punch, spinning himself around and going face-first to the grass. "Ow. Ugh. Hi, Lance!" He looked up at Strawman and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, this monstrosity's my fault. Not my finest hour. I'm here to remedy my mistakes, or something. What are you doing up? It's two in the morning."

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Fair point." He stood, gave the training dummy a sharp jab. "I'm not sure, actually. Something just kind of woke me up. It was weird." Frown. "Not that I mind really, beats sleeping these days..." He blinked, then muttered something unintelligible and gave Strawman another good kick.

_Gee, I wonder what _that's_ about._

Lance bit his tongue. He couldn't say what he wanted to say. But he had to be able to say something, didn't he? This was his teammate here. Hells with that, this was his _friend_ here. Keeping his mouth shut wasn't going to last.

"Hey, Pidge." He paused a moment, waiting for those green eyes to settle on him, then forged ahead before he could think better of it. "You know you can always talk to me, right? I mean, I know neither of us are much for the warm fuzzy stuff. But if you want to spill your guts without having to worry about someone giving you a lethal hug, I'm your man."

'Lethal' was not an exaggeration. He'd seen Hunk's hugs, and for the life of him wasn't sure how Pidge's ribcage survived the experience.

The young warrior stopped pounding on Strawman and looked back at him. "Are you sure?"

_Huh. That was easier than I expected_. "Course I'm sure, Pidge. You think I'd make the offer if I didn't mean it? I'm a jerk, but I'm not that much of a jerk."

"You're not a jerk. It's actually very endearing, the way you always know just how to make us want to bust your teeth in."

_...Uh huh. _"I'm not sure whether to thank you or hit you for that."

"Who says they're mutually exclusive?" Pidge looked up at him. "I wasn't doubting you meant it, Lance, it's just... silly. And really weird. So I haven't even talked to Hunk about it, because he'd take me too seriously, you know?"

As a matter of fact, Lance did know. "All too well. Sometimes you just want to spit it out without someone trying to fix you, right?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Go for it, then." He tousled the kid's hair, earning a playful glare and a light jab to the ribs. "I promise not to go all Hunk on you."

"Thanks." Pidge frowned. "It's just that I keep having these dreams, I can't explain them exactly... dreams washed out in blood. Everyone's dead. I _know_ everyone's dead. But everyone's still there even though they're dead and I'm just kind of going through the motions..."

_...Oh, holy hells. That's his definition of silly?_

There was no mistaking what that meant, not from the outside. And he couldn't say it, he couldn't say a damned word. He'd promised. And now, maybe for the first time, he appreciated how hard he must have made it on his friends when he didn't want to be helped. It took all his willpower not to blurt out something stupid right there.

Willpower wasn't really Lance's strong suit. "Dude. _That's_ what's keeping you up?"

"Yeah. Dumb, isn't it?" Pidge gave an odd little laugh. "Too many zombie movies or something."

"Or something," Lance agreed. _Good lord_.

Neither of them said anything else for a bit. Pidge went back to his formless attacks on Strawman, and Lance went back to watching. And biting his tongue again. He should probably get out of here before he completely snapped and said something that would get him broken in half by Hunk later—

"Hey Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"Did they ever rebuild your village?"

_Oh_... he was dancing around the edges. Seeking something, even if he didn't know it himself. Lance could understand that, and wished he had a better answer. One that was more helpful and less painful. Maybe also one that didn't make him look like quite so much of a heartless jerk, but that would be what it was.

"I don't know."

To his surprise, Pidge seemed to take that in stride, his response filled with nothing but curiosity. "You don't?"

"No." Lance couldn't help a grimace. He knew he was about to be asked to elaborate, and Pidge deserved the answer, after what he'd just admitted. Even so... he went on before he got to thinking too hard. "Maybe I don't _want_ to know, even though I want to know more than anything... I mean, I'm not sure which would be worse. If it's just all forgotten ash, or if it's been replaced with a bunch of strangers. Neither way really matters, you know? They can rebuild a _place_, but it wouldn't be my _home_."

Silence. Then a nod, and a whisper. "What matters... is just where you are now, right? What becomes your new home."

Lance opened his mouth to argue with that. It was a reflex, really. Someone driven by vengeance could hardly believe such a thing. But then two things happened. The first was that Red Lion's presence flared in his mind, a growl that could only be described as reproachful. That was interesting in itself. But the second thing was stranger, and far more interesting.

He didn't _want_ to argue. The words wouldn't come.

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment. Remembering so many dreams of his own—hells, they felt like forever ago. Dreams of himself as a victorious empty shell. He knew better. "Yeah, that _is_ the most important thing. Having some kind of future to look forward to."

Pidge nodded and returned to punching Strawman, but Lance himself couldn't help stopping to think.

Were his own edges really starting to soften?

No. They just kept gaining context.

The Drules had so much more to answer for now. His own home, always. For that, he would always hate them, would always gladly kill them every chance he got. It might not be his sole purpose in life, but it was damn sure still his prime cause. Only intensified, really, by what more they had to be punished for. Arus, Balto...

Sven...

And yet Pidge was right. Red was right. He, too, had more to live for. And he would never let himself forget that—just as he would never let his teammates forget. His _friends_. The ones who'd given him that new life.

_So you can't talk about what happened... you can still do something to help. Let yourself be who you are. You don't need to talk about the past for that._ He watched the little engineer beating up the training dummy a little longer, then grinned. "So, much as I'm sure Keith would love to hear we're being pro-active in our martial training, maybe the middle of the night isn't the time to do it, huh? You want to go hunt down a movie or something? Maybe one that isn't about zombies?"

With the grin that lit Pidge's face, there was a moment where it was possible to forget why they were even here. Forget all that had brought both of them to this point, forget that they were warriors at all. They were just two friends about to go hang out, because that was how they rolled.

They had to be more than just warriors. Or else why bother?

Red Lion purred in his mind.

* * *

It had been simple, really. Surprisingly simple. The human had put up a good fight, to be sure; Haggar doubted he realized how much work she'd had to put into twisting him, but that was for the best. The more he believed his own bitterness drove him, the more fiercely he would fight against his former friends.

And it _was_ his own bitterness, at least in part. Without that opening, she never could have turned him. But that was only the beginning.

In the end? He had succumbed to chaos.

Chaos was the heart of everything, after all. Its tendrils wove around all life, ensnaring mortals with choices and fears, guiding their responses to infinite factors beyond their control. Find the correct thread to grasp and anyone could be made into a puppet, dancing for whoever saw clearly enough to pull their strings.

It was unusual for Haggar to use the power of chaos with such subtlety. Not for lack of skill, but lack of opportunity; usually she was called upon to fully erase the minds of those who would be entering the Ninth Kingdom's service. This exercise had been far more precise, and she was proud of what she'd accomplished with the human.

That was an interesting thought. Shouldn't she be beyond pride, after so many centuries? Perhaps. But it was an accomplishment, and she enjoyed her work. As she should. If she ever ceased to take pride in her achievements in Sarga's name, that would be her sign that it was time to return to the void.

With Coba purring at her side, she stepped into King Zarkon's throne room, and was a little surprised to see that Lotor was already there. It seemed the prince was trying to sell his father on a new plan. Probably one that involved glorious single combat and getting another of her finest robeasts killed.

"Ah, Haggar." Zarkon nodded and gestured for her to approach. "You've been scarce, do you have something to report?"

"I do, sire." She knelt before the throne, a proper showing of deference. "I have forged a weapon of great power; the former pilot of the Blue Lion now serves our cause, with a craft born of Voltron's own power. With your permission, I will turn him against Arus."

Zarkon's golden eyes widened, and several courtiers gasped as her words sank in. She'd not informed the king of her project beforehand, for multiple reasons. "...Is that so? You think one failed pilot can defeat the humans who've struck down all your greatest monsters?"

Of course he had to point _that_ out. She frowned. "It is clear we need a different approach, sire. I have fused chaos with the grip of the lion god upon him, and we know the humans are a close-knit force. How will they respond? Will they even fight him? I do not need to tell you the value of psychological warfare. That alone will give him the advantage."

Murmurs rippled through the throne room. It seemed most of Zarkon's court approved of the idea, and the king himself was nodding his understanding. But one person was not quite so pleased.

"I beg your pardon, Revered Lady." Lotor's eyes glowed fiercely. "But the destruction of Voltron is _my_ right and _my_ mission."

Ah, yes. There was that. Haggar crossed her arms; Coba gave a soft growl. "Is that not shortsighted, my prince? We are on the same side."

"We are indeed, yet you look to harm me! You are ancient, witch, and destroying Voltron would be lost in the hundreds of glories to your name. Would you deny me the right to establish mine?"

She studied him for a few moments, not allowing the insolence to shake her calm, but giving him just enough of a warning look to make him reconsider his attitude. Hopefully. "Hardly. But you are young yet, and you will have no shortage of opportunities for conquest and glory. Your battle against Voltron has achieved nothing but failure after failure, what glory is there in that? There is no shame in admitting a specific task is beyond you... I alone have seen some success in facing the lion knight and his champions. Would you deny _me_ the right to finish the job I started?"

"Perhaps I would, since you've seemed content to let it sit this long!" The prince glowered. "And if I'm not mistaken, your current tool only exists because what you _thought_ was a success turned out to be a failure on all levels."

_Yes. Insolence_. "Clearly not on all levels, or he would not be my weapon now. You have no appreciation for subtlety, Prince Lotor."

"Why should I appreciate a tool of deception? Battles should be won through strength, not parlor tricks!"

"That's enough out of BOTH of you!" Zarkon snapped. "The destruction of Voltron and Arus is paramount. I don't care which of you succeeds. But one of you had best _get on with it_." He slammed his scepter against the arm of his throne, glowering at both of his subordinates as they looked at him with surprise. "Haggar, since you already have a plan in motion, proceed. Destroy Voltron, and burn Arus to the ground. Take no prisoners."

Well _that_ was new. Haggar shot her king a brief look of consternation. Of course Arus had to be annihilated, to set an example to any others who would defy the Ninth Kingdom and the Supremacy. But carpet-bombing and collateral damage were one thing. An actual 'no prisoners' order was something else entirely; the Arusians taken in the last attack had proven hardy workers. What purpose did it serve, other than spite, to massacre those who could be more profitably enslaved? The Alliance was already enraged by what had happened to Balto, and fighting with all the wild ferocity of that fury. This was just going to annoy them _more_.

It was, in fact, a reversal of Zarkon's own standard policy—a policy he'd put in place for all those fine reasons. But overreaction, rather than pragmatism, seemed to be turning into a way of life in this throne room.

If Zarkon noticed her hesitation, he ignored it. But he probably didn't notice. "Lotor, you will at the very least stay out of her way; I'd rather not have to execute my only heir for treason. Are we clear? Good. Dismissed!"

Well. The king hadn't lost any of his command presence, anyway. Haggar frowned and turned away from the throne, motioning for Coba to follow. She was uneasy, and she greatly disliked being uneasy... but she'd seen this before, this pattern.

Madness.

It wasn't her place to interfere with the throne. She was a witch, after all. If she were a priest it would be different; priests offered the pleas of mortals to the ears of the gods, and thus were acutely attuned to the _problems_ of mortals. Witches, though, represented the will of the gods themselves. Sarga's will was merely that the Ninth Kingdom continued to revere her, and bring glory to her name. She didn't particularly care who happened to be in the seat of power.

Indeed, the chaos goddess rather reveled in madness.

But there were degrees. If Zarkon fell to the same insanity as his predecessors now, during this war, it might well put the Ninth Kingdom in existential danger. That wouldn't serve Sarga's will at all. If matters continued to deteriorate, Haggar might find herself intervening.

Or perhaps the destruction of Voltron would ease the pressure on the king's mind?

"I don't know what the two of you think you're doing," a voice growled from behind her, interrupting her thoughts. "My father gives me a mission, then goes to every length he can to ensure I can't complete it as I see fit, and now _you_ have to step in too?"

_Oh, honestly_. Haggar stopped and cast Lotor a sidelong glance. "I seek only to bring victory to Sarga's faithful, Lotor. You know that victory will reflect on you as the Prince Imperial as well. Besides, my agent will have no interest in the destruction of Arus. Once Voltron has fallen, that honor will surely fall to you."

"I'm not interested in your table scraps." Lotor snorted. "And there's no honor to be had in slaughtering civilians once the weapons are removed from their arsenal."

He had a fair point there, she supposed. There was a time Zarkon would have agreed with him. Yes, if things went much further, she would have to speak.

For now... it might not be unwise to ingratiate herself with the heir.

"Then aid me in taking a greater target. The Castle of Lions is the command center, the extra eyes of the Voltron Force. Bring your fleet to Arus with my agent. Strike the castle, keep them blinded, prevent them from fully focusing on the battle at hand. When Voltron falls, there will be glory enough to share."

Lotor considered that for a few moments, frowning. Then he sighed. "Shared glory is better than no glory at all, I suppose. Very well, witch. The _Admiral Lionbane_ will be ready to depart within the hour."

* * *

The waiting room was a little too cold and a little too bright, and it smelled like antiseptic. Why the hell did it smell like antiseptic? This wasn't even a proper doctor's office. _But it's a lovely place_, Chip mused as he sat and stewed on why he was here. _All the soulless efficiency of a military installation, combined with the stark indifference of a prison. This would fit right in on Balto. _

Balto...

Balto was why he was here, of course. His new commanding officer had made an official recommendation that he see a military psychologist, to "ensure there are no lingering effects of the trauma he has endured". Really. Really? There were already times that Chip wanted to punch General Wade right in his smug, sneering face.

Lingering effects were sort of the _point_.

He didn't want to be here at all. He knew what he was to Project Dairugger. A token. A reminder that the Drules were bastards who'd had the nerve to destroy a planet the Alliance couldn't be bothered to defend. _Go ahead guys. Rub it in. Make sure I can't ever get away from it for a moment..._

Someone appeared in the doorway. "Cadet Chip? Dr. Payne will see you now."

_Dr. Payne. Really?!_ Glowering at the attendant, Chip stood and stalked back to the room she indicated.

Having certainly never encountered such a thing himself, Chip hadn't been too sure what to expect from this... psychologist. Daniel had advised him that it was likely to be a quirky German man with a long white beard, who would have him lay down on a couch and talk about his feelings or something. The _or something_ had been his exact words.

_Or something_ apparently meant a hawk-featured woman who didn't have a couch anywhere to be seen. Chip wondered if she was German, whatever that meant. She smiled at him as he entered. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but it just made her look like a Baltan blood kite getting ready to swoop down on its prey. "Ah, good morning, Chip. Please, come in, have a seat. You can call me Kelly."

Well. If his name were Dr. Payne, he probably wouldn't use it either. Chip sank down in an overstuffed chair that reeked of something he couldn't pin down. Probably sadness and failure. The antiseptic had been better. Then he just glared at her, waiting for this ridiculous doctor to make the first move.

She blinked. "Ah, it's nice to meet you. Let's talk, shall we?"

Glare.

Now she sighed. "Alright, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to. General Wade referred you here because..." A pause as she glanced down at some papers in her lap.

"Because the Drules _blew up my planet_ and he wants to be certain there's no _lingering trauma_," Chip spat. "Or at least not an inconvenient amount of lingering trauma."

A hesitation. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm not an idiot. Don't patronize me."

"I'm not trying to patronize you, Chip. I just want you to talk things out with me, walk me through what you're thinking, alright? I can help you more if I know what your thought process is like. So, tell me about it?"

Dr. Payne was barely even making eye contact. She was making notes. Chip was suddenly struck with a flash of memory, an image. Jyari sitting across from him and Pidge, listening to tales of far less weight, yet she'd hung onto every word. Remembered. Because the two crossbreeds were part of her life, not just some fifty minute obligation.

Who the hell was _this_ bitch, to ask him these things like they mattered? As soon as he walked out that door it would all be shuffled away, replaced by some other poor sap's issues. This doctor must listen to so many. How many did she really hear? How many could she possibly hear?

How could she possibly care?

His silence drew another look. "...It's alright, Chip. Maybe we shouldn't start right there. Is there anything else you'd like to talk about first? Our sessions will be much more effective if we can build a bit of trust."

Trust.

Trust?

Chip closed his eyes for a moment, letting more memories take over. Better memories. Memories of a moment where he and another crossbreed had become brothers, bound in perfect understanding. Memories of learning to look a Tenra in the eye, to believe one of the privileged fullbloods might possibly place some value in him. The three of them had banded together, not because they had to, but because they chose to. Because they sought each other out and let each other in.

What the _hell_ did this woman and her notes, in this sterile room on this sheltered planet, know about trust!

"Know what? No." He stood, eyes blazing. "What if I don't want to build trust? What if I don't have time or breath to waste on some faceless bitch who's only in this because she was told she had to listen to me?" The doctor opened her mouth to say something and he waved a hand to shut her up; he'd heard enough of her false reassurance already. "You tell General Wade I'll kill Drules for him and be happy about it, but I have nothing else to say to _you_."

She tried to stammer out a response, but Chip wasn't listening. He was running. Fleeing the room and the whole infirmary wing as swiftly as he'd ever fled an unpleasant situation on Balto. Maybe faster.

_Bitch. Bitch bitch bitch_. Not the most eloquent or intelligent mantra, but it did make him feel a little better. So did flinging open the door to his room and slamming it behind him, which would likely get him in trouble later, but whatever. He was already probably in trouble.

He threw himself on his bed, punched the pillow to a pulp, then looked around.

Daniel wasn't there. Which disappointed him quite a lot more than he'd have thought. His roommate's concern for him was also very practical, after all. They were stuck in a tiny dorm room together, not to mention now on the same assignment; it wouldn't do to be at each others' throats, right?

But there was more to it. Wade had told them the Dairugger Squadron would become their life. Working together, fighting together. They would have to learn to trust, wouldn't they? Maybe even gain that closeness Pidge spoke of in his letters—the Voltron Force, pressed together by duty, yet forming their own curious family as well. Could this team be like that, if he let it?

_Maybe_...

Chip sighed, sprawled on his bed, and started writing a letter to his brother.


End file.
